check this out!

http://world6.knightfight.co.uk/?ac=vid&vid=122046309

Tea Parties and Crumpets!

As promised, ladies and gents. A little tea for you? I'd like some, because I'm Winston Churchill. Some Crumpets maybe? I'm having Crumpets, because I'm Winston Churchill. (From the Play "Winston Churchill We Hardly Knew Ye" by Peter Griffin)

An excellent play, really. I went and saw it at the 5th Avenue Theater with it's off-off Broadway Cast. Really well put together, and great production values.

Now let's venture into a more serious discussion on Tea and Tea's tasty little buddy: Crumpet. Crumpet is a cool guy and gets along with everybody. Tea and Milk, they sometimes don't get along, especially when lady Lemon is around. Crumpet makes friends with everybody. One day I saw Crumpet hangging out with Spinach and Ham and Goat Cheese. What a bunch of kooky guys they be! Later in the day, Crumpet was on the south side with Nutella. That guy is everywhere. Tea, well even though he don't get along with everybody he and Crumpet are still best buddies. Word to YOUR Mother.

The Crumpet is defined as: a savoury snack made from flour and yeast. It is eaten mainly in the United Kingdom, but also in the nations of the Commonwealth.Wiki et al.

And indeed it is a savory snack. The buttery cake is believed to have been Celtic in origin. The are usually round, have a spongy texture and are generally bland without a topping. Usual toppings include: butter, honey, jam, marmalade, nutella, peanut butter, cow feces, lox and cream cheese, and ham and cheddar.

Most often it is served with teas, many times during "high tea" which is pretty sweet.

Later, I will speak of a time I went to a Crumpet Shop! Joy to the World.

Holy Shit the World is gonna end.

One of my friends that has been in my life for ages is back in Seattle right now. Being that said friend is a secretive person the name will not be disclosed, to keep this human being happy. Anyways, person-x is in town and has somehow lit a fire under my ass. Not only a fire, but a fire by friction. Please refrain from the gay jokes.

What I mean is: I am completely unable to (at this current juncture) live in harmony with nature. This may sound strange, especially from this quasi-tech-savvy (what a hyphen combo) blogger. But, much to the chagrin of my sweet lady and to you countless readers, I have an avid and growing interest both in survival skills and tracking. X (as I will call them from this point on) was the person who first sparked my interest in these subjects.

X came back to Seattle a few years ago after many a month spent in a tree sit and told me about this wonderful author I should check out. Tom Brown Jr. At the time I was like "Yeah, sure I'll check him out. . . Hippy." And so for a few months I laughed at X's obsession with end of the world prophecies and almost supernatural stories of wilderness skill.

The one that most fascinated and terrified him was called the "Red Skies Prophecy." Well time went on and I warmed up to the idea of scout skills and tracking as I saw the physical and mental development of X. I read a few books and started considering taking a class or two at the Tracker School.

And finally, I recently became acquainted with these four major prophecies of Stalking Wolf, the man Tom Brown called Grandfather. As two of the four prophecies have come true, and I have been low on the "spiritual batteries" have been low, I have decided to devote much more of my time into a pure and simple, if time consuming, pursuit. To learn all that I can about tracking and survival, and if I can help stop the last two prophecies. I only hope that if the Red Skies come I will be prepared to walk as a child of the Earth; that I can feel the Spirit-That-Walks-Through-All.

I know, at first I thought it was crazy too, but take heed. Humans are destroying the earth. Read the text, and take it in. I only wish the people I loved would prepare themselves better.
Tomorrow's agenda: Dirt Time.

Next blog: tea parties and crumpets. Peace out.

Of Late Night Evenings and Inablility to Sleep (Part 2)

I can't sleep again. I feel unsure. Not about anything particular, just a constant sense of unsureness, hovering. I feel listless. Tired. Apathetic. I have been productive this week. I have been smoking more, lately. I can not sleep much. I feel a constant and unrelenting weight on my chest.

I watch free pornography. I no longer download it. Too much space taken up, and the constant affection for a collection. I feel sad and guilty. Guilty that I feel bad for no particular reason. Guilty of being tired and depressed. Unhappy with what is what and who is who. Unhappy with what is on television. Unhappy that I am so concerned about dying.

I think of this and it makes me panic. My heart beat races, my mouth becomes dry, I can't breathe. I find that my eyes are unable to focus on anything. I find that my mind is unable to focus on anything.

I am finally beginning to feel tired now. Really tired. Not the tired of the soul, but the of the body. Maybe I will be able to sleep tonight. I decide to watch more of the Matrix. I decide to blog. I watch commercials with half interest. Drew calls my name as I step out for another smoke. I hear her call my name again. I say what and she grunts. Three or four minutes later I hear her snoring.

I think about bobsleding. I wonder why bobsled shows as being spelled correctly but bobsleding does not. Those red dashed lines make me feel inadequate as a writer. As though I can not properly craft the English language. I think to myself "Anyone who says that speak American is an idiot." I wonder if I have said that while I was drunk.

I have strange aches in my body. I have heard people say that everyone gets them from time to time. These strange aches of the body. The pain of being alive, nothing more. But I still worry. I worry that these pains are more. They are the pains of death. The pain of living comes from dying. And we are dying, all of us, every single day. Every last one of us.

And it all makes me sad.

Early Morning and Possible Emmys

Worked my second day back at SCCtv yesterday and it was awesome. We went down to the Seattle Public School's studio (a moderately sized television studio with decent equipement) and filmed a music show for kids.

I reaffirmed my love for media production. The show was talented kids playing music and a studio audience of more children talking about how the music made them feel and what it reminded them of. Pretty sweet if you ask me.

The kids that played, Jeong (17), Sun (12) and Alex (7), were incredibly talented pianists who were adorable. Jeong cracked me up because she was soooo timid, but the second she started to play she would go crazy at the piano. And Alex, he was brilliant and the best part was (besides the Mozart he played) was that he needed a special peddle box to reach the peddles. A-fucking-dorable.

On the shoot I was the floor director. Essentially the t.v. version of an assistant director. I have never done this job outside of a classroom setting and was nervous as hell. Thankfully my ability to "man up" to the situation kicked in and I nailed it. At the end of the day I had the satisfaction of a job well done.

I may have to rethink my opinions on SCCtv, as this was a great experience and a wonderful opportunity. Plus, the show is getting put in for Emmy nomination. Cross your fingers, fine readers, that yours truly (or rather the show I worked on) gets the Emmy. That would be fucking sweet.

Afterwards Drew and I went to a event for Arcade Magazine, and was also a part of One Pot. Met (very briefly) Michael Hebberoy, who seems like a cool guy, and he is doing some cool things around the world, so. . . respect.

The event was an annual event for architecture, and Drew got some sweet pictures, and I'm sure she will blog all about it and post said pictures some time this week.

The exhibits were rad, including a scale model of the downtown area, the space needle, and a napkin exhibit (which designers had drawn on) called "The Napkin Project." My favorite, however, was the original rendering of the Space Needle painted in 1957. All in all it was a great event, especially because drinks were only a dollar and tthat was just to support Arcade.

Well, gotta get back to watching Jay-Z on MTV. My life is now complete.

It's so good? is that the word? to be back. . .

Today I finally received some hours at my internship (hooray!) at SCCtv. The first day back was pretty typical. It included poor direction and a general sense of panic.

I set up and worked camera for an in studio (and what felt impromptu) shoot. Oh the joys of community college television.

When I first signed up I thought "Oh fuck, SCCtv. Piece of cake." Now after having officially interned there for 6 months and only having complete 89 hours I can look back and say "You are an idiot." The lesson learned: easier is not always easier in the end.

So, that being said I joyously look forward to tomorrow's shoot in which I am (gasp) a floor director. I have no idea what I am going to do. Look out world, here I come.

On another note, Drew, from OMSTV, and I talked about our upcoming film project about gay parenting. More on that later. Now, back to Tom in the studio.

Retro Relics and the Communist Manifesto

Today I ventured back to my parent's house to try and sort out the madness that is my old room. I have been doing this on and off (mostly off) for the past few months, and as I had some time I thought I would make another attempt at mucking out the old cave.

I found shit I didn't even knew existed. Among the relics I found was a S.C.U.B.A. mask, a fencing helmet, a bizarre hand duster (literally a shitty glove with yarn attached to the fingers), my old POG collection and a plethora of Collectible Card Games, including Star Trek TNG and Magic the Gathering.

I was amazed to find these relics of the early 90's and that they were still in such good condition. I thank my obsessive compulsiveness/nerdiness for the near mint condition of the playing card games that I never really played. In retrospect I feel a little cheated. And like I had no friends.

Anyways, I decide that the only thing that can be done with these relics is to put them on ebay. But alas, tradgedy. For some peculiar reason no one is buying shit like this. I wonder why? Is it the complete outdatedness of said items, or are kids these days more involved in the digital realm than in lame pieces of cardboard that creepy dudes in their thirties with ponytails sell at the local hobby hut? Either way I feel cheated. I collected these items to make money on a later date. That later date has arrived, and I just want to get rid of them.

So what do I do? Let down the childhood entrepreneur in me or figure out a way to make some cash money from the stupid shit I bought when I was a dork with no friends? (Well, the friends I had were dorks too, so they don't count). Luckily, I convinced my mom to help me ebay the shit after the holidays, which means little work for me and I get the shit out of my hair. Thanks, Mom!

Thankfully I still have the old stand by of my comic book collection, which includes an Action Comics issue 290 and a Batman issue 93. I am glad a made one fruitful investment in childhood frivolity. And even better, all the cool friends I have now are envious of my great comic collection.

Later I had a conversation with my father about life. He stated I should set out a one, five, and ten year plan. While I am not usually keen on the ideology of Mother Russia, I will say that for the first time in my life I shut up the inner monologue that usually plays when he talks and actually listened. (I hope he doesn't read this) Listening to my rapidly approaching 60 year old father I had an epiphany: He actually does know what the fuck he is talking about.

We have just lost cabin pressure.

He always told me that the day would come, and until today, December 4th in the year of our lord 2007 I always thought the old man was, well, full of shit. So, for once in my life I will suck it up and admit to being wrong.

Now, off to write those year plans and make my life happen!

GLAMF!

That's right December starts everyone's favorite time of the year. No, I'm not talking about the Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Whatever holidays. I'm talking about national Gangster Like a Mother Fucker month.

While many lay people are unaware of this odious month that celebrates everything gangster, it does, good readers, exist.

How does one celebrate GLAMF? One might ask. That is where I come in, as your official gangster-ass liaison to the wonderful and uncelebrated Gangster Like a Mother Fucker month.

A photo of my "hommie" Aaron actin' a fool.

So, here is a list of ten things you can do to celebrate GLAMF!

1) Get your Crunk on.

2) Slap a bitch who don't give you yo' motha fuckin' money!

3) Get a sick ass Grill.

4) Go Bombing and put up a sick ass piece.

5) Get a Gat, Strap, or Heater and cap a fool.

6) Slang some Crack, Weed, or Coke.

7) Pimp your Ride.

8) Bust a sick Flow. (You can also remix an old school hit)

9) Run a Hustle.

10) Get locked up.

Now that you are armed with a knowledge of GLAMF (as well as a Glock 17 with a 15 round clip) and what to do go out and wreck some shit and enjoy December's most unrecognized celebration of everything gangster.

Dumb Shit People

Fuck Advertising

Example:

LADY: "The Ab Lounge got rid of my pot belly. If it can do that it can do anything."

You are a dumb whore. Can the ab lounge love you? Can it solve the problems of World Hunger and War? Can it move you like I moved you that summer night years ago in Mexico City? No. The Ab Lounge cannot, in fact, do anything but work your abs. And frankly I am sick of people and their goddamn exaggerations.

It reminds me of the time I fought 27 ninjas, using only my feet. Backwards.

Blah Blah Blah Hampster

I have to go to work at the Lyon Rouge, as I call it, or the Red Lion for all you other folks out there. I hate it. I have not much to blog about, but I figured I would try to keep up in spirit of the recently ending NabloPomo. I thought about encouraging my gay friends to start a national gay blog month called NabloHomo. I think that it would sweep the blogging community like Cinderella before she went a-golddiggin'.

I have finished half of my X-Mas shopping and already feel less than half the holiday stress. I have been looking for rad presents for Drew, but so far I have only purchased one. . . in which she had to open now. "Christmas is too far away!" was her complaint. Hopefully she will forget what the present is, but not likely. Luckily I have been good at purchasing the lady good presents so far.

Next in my day: shower and go to work. Good bye lovely non-existent readers.

national blog bullshit whatever

It's the nation blog your ass off or whatever month so I thought "Fuck it, I'll post a blog!"

I should be cleaning right now, but I can't bring myself to doing it. I am hosting a social network party at the lovely and talented Drew of OMSTV and my apartment. I am actually a bit nervous as this will be the first time meeting co-workers of hers and it is a professional meeting.

I will be on my best behavior but above that I want to sound smart and interesting, and not like a complete jackass. . . which is what I am most of the time.

The dishes are calling my name, and I have to go to work in a hot minute. Well, in two hours.

Blog post accomplished, dishes here I come.

P.S. Weiner.

oi

Heads up, all this shit is copyright Ian Prebo.

Le Tired

I am incredibly tired right now. More later. . .

Of Mice and Dishes

I HATE DOING DISHES. That is all.

A Pirate's Life for Me

I don't know much about technology. I am not one of those tech gurus that ponders the intricacies of the Helio or iPhone. I'm just not that guy.

That being said my girlfriend and author of One More Salute To Vanity is that girl.

Sometimes I feel as though I am a fraud of my generation, a neolithic throwback that has trouble checking his own damn email (not seriously, but you get the point).

The thing is that I have had this blog for the better part of a year now, and while I have neglected it to a fairly gargantuan degree I had always felt like a douche because I did not know how to put pictures in the blog.

As any post-modern male would do when in a bind, I asked my girlfriend. Her cutesie comments bordered on the "it's not that small" variety, but after minimal teasing we were off and a running. We celebrated over pita chips and hummus.

So, finally, almost eight months after its inception (and some good old fashioned cajoling) SPIE is going visual. Watch out internet watch dogs, I'm a cumming [sic] for you.

So, here you are ladies and gentle men, a photograph of me on one of my many exploits for the East Indica Trading Company.

Of Late Night Evenings and Inability to Sleep.

My beard itches. I watch a zombie movie. The new (ish) Dawn of the Dead. I think about how much I like the old one more. I enjoy the new one. The spin it puts on the genre of Zombie Fiction. I reminiss about "All Flesh Must Be Eaten," a zombie role playing game. I ponder the finer points of surviving the end of the world. I masturbate to free downloaded porn. My Beard still itches. My hands cramp as I type because I have been awake for so long. I can't sleep. I think about Drew. I wish I had taken a cab to her place.

I remember when things terrified me. When I couldn't watch horror films late at night. I would try, but the fear undoubtably would win. It would worm it's way under closed doors, seep through the walls, crawl under blankets and decorative afghans knitted by my desceased grandmother. The fear pervailed. I percerviered.

I started working at a video store. I rented endless hours of horror films. Zombie Movies. Cult Classics. I learned all that I could about genres and films popular to women between the ages of 16 and 35. I watched new releases two days before they hit the selves. It was called research. I would walk the floor, asking everyone questions about movies they liked, if they found everything. I felt like God. I felt like a big fucking joke in a too loose denim shirt. At least they stopped making us wear bow ties.

I think about my job now. How it tortures me to sit at a desk for eight hours. Stare at a goddamn computer screen. Stick stickers that say: If you would like to refuse delivery of the Seattle Times your account will be credited $0.25 daily or $0.75 for the Sunday edition. I put fifteen hundred stickers on key packets in an eight hour shift. I contemplate increasing productivity. I contemplate painting the walls with my brains.

I'm unhappy. I'm listless. I'm tired of MLA. I miss it. I'm unhappy and I don't know why. It's begining to get ugly, in here, alone with myself. The muck and blood are halfway up the windows now. In the back of my head I wonder if there is a rear exit. . . or if I can make one.

I masturbate while myspace loads. I watch Sasha-eighteen-HIGH three times and pop. I feel somewhat ashamed. More so than usual. I wonder where Sasha's parents were, where they are, whether they know she does what she does. I wonder where Sasha is. I wonder what would happen to my life if I joined said industry. I blog. I go smoke a cigarette.

I wince myself to sleep.

To all you non readers out there. . .

Where to start? The past year and change has been a doosy. August 26th marked two momentous occasions for Ian, The eight month anniversary of Drew and I and the year anniversary of my cousin BJ's death. Let me begin with the sad.

BJ was one of the greatest kids I have ever known. He was smart and funny, charismatic, charming, and all-around a good person. He had a great life ahead of him, and hell up until his death he had a great life. All of us in the family loved BJ. He was a shining example of what our family could produce. He wasn't a weird artist or an alchoholic, he wasn't a jerk and he never felt sorry for himself. He was stand up in every way.

On August 26th 2006 his boss was driving the two of them home in BJ's car. It was a Porsche Boxter convertible. Both of them were stone cold sober. His boss took a turn funny and rolled the car into a tree. Both died on impact.

It's been a year and the sadness of his lost still lingers. I was the person that BJ came to often for advice on girls, or if he wanted to drink a beer and hang out. I remember the first time he got drunk. We were camping out in Westport, surfing. We laid out on the beach under a huge blanket of stars and talked about girls and life. I taught him the finer points of PBR.

I remember the first time he smoked pot with his dad. It was his birthday. I set up the whole affair, and for once I felt like the person who brought family together. I usually am the one that pushes people apart. I was proud in a strange way. It reminded me of the first time I smoked with my dad. It said, in one great acrid cloud of smoke, we're family. Families should play together.

In some ways I feel a responsibility in his death. Why? I don't know. Maybe it was because I was so frank with him; that there were times where I was a bad influence. But isn't that what you do as the older cousin? Show the kids what's bullshit and what isn't? But I can't shake the guilt. Even thought there was nothing I could have done, that in no way to I even share responsibility for his death I still feel it's weight on my shoulders every day. I love you BJ and miss you dreadfully.

And now onto the Good. Drew. Where can I begin? You spend your life jumping from one meaningless fling, one night stand, relationship, date, to another and think that you will be destined to never be more to anyone than a great fuck, and then the most amazing woman drops in your lap.

Drew is everything I need. She is smart and funny, successful, she has huge amounts of drive. She pushes me to be more creative. She is beautiful and tender. She can handle me. Maybe not completely handle me, but she can put up with my insanity better than anyone I have ever known. I don't know how she does it. How she can be around my wild and boundless bouts of uncompromising rage. The world falls apart. I am nothing.

And again and again, a hand reaches into that void, clawing with fervent love. It reaches into the muck, the brine, the sewage and saliva, it dives deep into the cesspool of my heart and pulls me back out into the light. It cleans off the feces and vomit and says "I love you." She melts me. She breaks me down to make something new and better. I am more of a man. More human. More Divine. More vulnerable. I am more myself than I have ever been.

I love you, Drew.

Things to note about a dislocated shoulder

It fucking hurts. Also, I always believed that once said shoulder was back in location that it would no longer cause pain or discomfort. Turns out when one dislocates a shoulder it rips and tears muscles, ligaments, and cartilage. This means 4 to 6 weeks of discomfort. It does, however, have the bonus of no heavy lifting and general sympathy from those around you. So he who injured said shoulder does not have to help out with the family garage sales nor with his sister's house move. The downside is that being on top during coitus cause irritation to the injury. Bad news for the Heart of Austria crowd. . . Good news for downstairs neighbors.

an open letter to freeze tag

Dear Freeze Tag

You have given me many joys in my life, especially in my childhood. The long summer days of you and me running around, crawling through people's legs to unfreeze them have always been fond memories.

Recently I visited you while camping. You were not the kind and cordial freeze tag I remember. You have become an abusive friend. I do not appreciate your hand in dislocating my shoulder. We are no longer friends, freeze tag. Maybe this will be a lesson for you. When you injure people, freeze tag, they no longer want to spend time with you.

I hope you feel proud of yourself, you jerk.

Your (ex)friend in a sling,
Ian Prebo

Film Making is an Art best Served Pretentious.

The problem with Seattle Film making is that it is a small pond with fish who think they are big. You can only grow as big as your tank, and, let me tell you this my coy friends: We are all small fish. That being said, film making is an art. But lately I've been watching my peers create bourgeois "AHHHT" as I kindly refer to it.

I may not be the best film maker out there but I know what I like and it ain't what you're serving. Go ahead and make films that satisfy your ego and make you feel like a pretty little unique snowflake. I'm gonna go and make some real art and pee in your cereal.

So fuck you very much and have a nice day.

P.S. I shat in your cornflakes.